Odd night last night.
I think it’s because I was a touch dressed up. Pants, rather than jeans. Shiny shoes, rather than workboots (I ride a vespa – sturdy footwear is wise). 200-dollar shirt. Couple of years old, but I don’t wear it a lot so it still looks like a 200-dollar shirt.
I’m 45, growing out the facial hair. Big patch of grey on the chin, a little here and there on the cheeks. I don’t work out. Spindly arms, pot belly. 5’8 – shorter than most. Guys (here in Oz) at the bar call me “Big Fella”. It’s not a compliment. Beta – shit – Zeta male.
But Annette walks right up to me and starts attempting to talk over the music. The clothes, maybe, or the age. I was the only 40-yo in the joint. Annette – late 30s. Not a hot late-30s either. Not an american land-whale, but yeah, carrying the usual weight of a woman that age. But you can see it in her face, the feminine little chin, the confidence: she used to be cute as fuck. She used to be an 8+.
“I’m not trying to pick you up”, she yells. “Oh yes you are, babe”, I reply. Don’t know if that’s a good opener or not. Don’t care. Had my midlife crisis, been through the male menopause a few years back.
Annette buys me a drink. Interesting. We talk a little – yell above the noise. I get the impression that she is back in town for a weekend. I live in Canberra: the Big Smoke is Sydney or Melbourne. I think this particular bar, she used to be queen here 15 years ago. My, but a lot has changed! My, it’s a whole different crowd! Well, duh.
Annette drags me out on the floor. I usually hate dancing – I’m bad at it, and there’s this pin in my leg. But the crush is severe enough that it doesn’t matter: all you can do is jog up and down. Annette faces away from me.
A couple of guys are peacocking. Probably not PUAs, it’s just that every now and then there’s a fancy-dress party somewhere in the neighbourhood, and people move on to the nightlife at Green Square when they wind down. One guy is dressed as an Ace of Clubs, one as the mad hatter wearing a furry hat that makes him 7-foot tall. Annette wants it. Lesson: Mystery’s furry hat fucking *works*. It deals with the thing that many guys find most intimidating: the approach.
Stuff happens. At one point, Annette attempts to put her handbag over my head. I wave it off. “No babe,” I yell over the music, smiling (thanks to these forums, I knew to smile while I did it), “I will not hold your handbag for you while you dance with someone else. Fuck that.” I just passed a shit-test! Oh sure, I failed a whole series of others, but still – I passed one. I see a spark of respect.
But not enough. Not nearly enough. And anyway, I just don’t want it enough. She attempts to flirt with guys 10 years younger, who don’t want it either. Particularly fascinated by a couple of black guys (this is Canberra, dudes, black people here are not “niggers” in the way Americans mean it, they are exotic people often actually from Africa recently). “You don’t know me”, she drunkenly proclaims to me. “You don’t know me”. Apparently her brother is a lawyer. Apparently she – or at least he – was a big shot around there, 15 years ago. It’s Canberra babe. National capital, remember? You’ve clearly forgotten that important people are pretty thick on the ground.
It’s 2, 2:15 maybe. The band (Special K – good band) finishes up. Thank you and good night. She suggests another drink. I say no. She’s had enough. I’m probably not going home with her, but if I do I don’t want her so drunk she falls asleep during. I go for the close – why not? “You wanna go?” Annette shakes her head, drags me out on the dance floor again. Back to me. I fuck off, head next door to the Holy Grail. Buy a beer. Grab a chair outside, watch for her to come out and head down the path, alone. That head-shake was all I needed to see, but I am the only guy within a 500-m radius who is even potentially willing to fuck her late-30s faded hot-chick ass tonight. I’m feeling good.
She emerges, just exactly, precisely as I knew she would. I debate it briefly, but I’m not quite ready to go home. I follow. Just around the corner. She’s all unhappy. Apparently the police moved her drunk not-having-a-good-time self on. Poor little ex queen of the bar! Whose brother is a lawyer! Who was an important person around these parts, 15, maybe 20 years ago!
Misery loves company. I’ve been made miserable for years and years by exactly these people, her age cohort. Even now, she’s still trying to treat me like shit. Seeing her unhappy – not just unhappy, but shocked: drunk and bewildered, uncomprehending how these things could possibly have happened to her, realising that it’s a whole new reality – it’s a good feeling. She’s living my reality, now, the one I have lived all my life. I feel good about it. Momentarily guilty about feeling good about it, but along with Roosh I say: “You did this to me“.
I tell her to her face, “Well babe, if you want to be all unhappy and not having a good time, that’s up to you.” I head back to The Grail. Don’t expect to see her again – you know, police and all – but there she is. Dance floor again. She has the fucking front to introduce me as her brother to some black guy. Whatever. It’s after 3 and I have to start sobering up if I want to ride home. We aren’t doing anything tonight. At my age, if you want to fuck then you have to head home at 2, or preferably before.
And anyway, I’ve kinda finished, you know? I sit in a chair for a while (dangerous, because you can fall asleep that way). I think she drags me onto the floor one final time, but I just walk off as soon as her back is turned, which is pretty much straight away. Whatever – not even offended anymore. I leave, go walk around the block, as usual. Walking it off. Get back after 4, and I can see from over the far side of the carpark that they are turning the ugly lights on. I don’t go back to the bar to see if she’s still there. I get on my bike, and ride home.